


Gentleman's Waltz

by MegaBadBunny



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Ficandchips, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Jealousy, Romantic Fluff, Subtext, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:59:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6384814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaBadBunny/pseuds/MegaBadBunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Doctor recoils from a smidge of domesticity, Rose plays a little dirty to get what she wants. All ages (maybe mild teen for innuendo), a little jealous!Doctor here and there, and fluff, fluff, fluff. Based on a prompt from nottheopera on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gentleman's Waltz

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” the Doctor mutters.

“I can’t believe you almost let an entire two minutes pass without a single complaint,” Rose retorts. Her breath leaves her mouth in a fine mist, hangs in the air for a moment after she’s done speaking. “Slacking a bit, you are.”

“Rose, I could take you to any wedding, anywhere, any _when_ ,” the Doctor complains. “Or any _who_ , for that matter. We could go see Napoleon and Josephine. We could watch the Five-Spouse Bonding Ceremony for Lavraxas III. I could get you a front-row seat for the royal wedding!”

He pauses for effect, and Rose can practically hear him looking at her. “You know,” he urges. “ _The_ royal wedding.”

Rose laughs, rolling her eyes. “Tempting as they sound, none of those have got my cousin in them.”

“Or maybe they’re just cousins you don’t know yet. I hear Lavraxas’s second wife has a touch of human ancestry. Only one way to find out!”

He keeps talking as they walk, prattling on about polygamous unity ceremonies on twelfth-century Calgudon, but Rose isn’t really listening. She’s too busy shivering. She felt fine when she stepped out of the TARDIS but now the wind is punishing her for her lack of foresight, biting into her bare arms and legs and eating through the thin material of her dress. On top of that, her footwear presents a distraction of an entirely different sort—she has to watch every step she takes to ensure she doesn’t trip over the uneven pavement, scanning the ground for any suspicious nooks or wily crannies that could pop up out of nowhere and snare the heels of her pumps. She opens her mouth to complain that whoever originally designed the blasted things was clearly a sadist hellbent on high-fashion torture, but thinks better of it—knowing the Doctor, he may very well confirm her theory, and then insist on proving it to her.

“I’m just saying,” the Doctor continues, “that there are plenty of other activities we could participate in that would not involve formalwear, uncomfortable fancy undergarments, or impractical blister-causing shoes.”

“What would you know about fancy undergarments?” Rose teases, hugging herself in defense against the chill.

The Doctor heaves a sigh and his feet slow to a halt, plimsolls scuffing the asphalt. Rose has to stop walking to look back at him.

“Rose,” he says flatly.

“Doctor,” Rose replies, imitating his tone.

The sharp purse of his lips lets her know that he is not deterred, nor is he amused. “This is an archaic tradition, celebrated in a ridiculously saccharine fashion, simply reeking of over-sentimentality and commercialism. More importantly, it’s _boring_. Why do you have to go? And why, by extension, do I?”

“Come on,” Rose protests. She tightens her arms around her frame, her teeth nearly chattering from cold. “It’s just one thing, just for a few hours. I never complain about all the things _you_ want to do.”

The Doctor frowns. “Yes, but I was under the impression that they were things you wanted to do, too.”

“They were. They are. But sometimes you have to do things even when you don’t want to. That’s just part of being—”

“Human?” the Doctor suggests.

“I was gonna say ‘an adult’,” Rose replies.

The Doctor pulls a face. Something about that tight look of barely-there patience with the rolling-eyes and the grimacing mouth just drives Rose mad, and not in a fun way. She’s not half-tempted to smack him in the arm.

“All I’m saying,” the Doctor says delicately, “is that we happen to be on a human-inhabited planet, on our way to a human-made celebration for human people. Doesn’t that merit, oh, I don’t know, a more human companion for the evening?”

Rose considers. She knew it was a long shot, asking him to be her plus-one—for all that they’re best mates, he’s much more of a “takes you on a mad backpacking trip through the foothills” sort of friend than the “picks you up from the airport” kind—so maybe she can’t blame him for digging in his heels a little bit. Honestly, she doesn’t want to attend this event any more than he does, but if she doesn’t, her mother will have a fit. She’s probably already at the damned thing, sitting three rows back in her old powder-blue garden dress and silk flower hat and wondering where her daughter is. And if that weren’t enough, the _Remember that time you were gone for an entire year without phoning your mum?_ argument came into play a few days prior. It’s a sentiment Rose is tired of hearing, but only because it makes her guts squirm every time she thinks about it.

“I’m certain there are many, many eligible young people who would happily escort you this magnificently mundane event,” the Doctor continues, rocking on his heels. “You two go off for a night of sitting and listening and pretending-to-cry-tears-of-joy-but-secretly-wishing-for-a-meteor-to-strike, I stay here and do literally anything else, like solve differential equations or watch paint dry. It’s a win-win!”

Rose sighs, her shoulders rising in a halfhearted shrug. As much as she hates to admit it, maybe he’s right. Maybe this was too much for her to expect from him; maybe she’s silly for even thinking they could attempt things like a normal—well, not a couple, but definitely more-than-friends, it feels like. (To her, anyway; who knows how things feel for _him_.)

“Sure, whatever,” Rose says. She fishes her mobile out of her clutch and punches in her speed-dial. “I bet Mickey’s free, probably the better choice anyway.”

“Excellent,” the Doctor beams. “Don’t worry, I won’t wait up!” And he bounds away without a moment’s pause.

Sighing, Rose taps her toe impatiently against the pavement, starts chewing her lip to keep her teeth from chattering while she waits for Mickey to pick up the phone. She lets it ring several times before she sighs, hangs up, and redials. She doesn’t want to seem clingy, but she also really doesn’t want to go to her poncey cousin’s wedding alone, and after being away for so long, she hasn’t exactly got a whole roster of mates she can call up, and Christ, but the Doctor can be a right pain in the—

“Assuming I didn’t somehow mishear you earlier,” the Doctor’s voice drifts back toward her, and she turns around to see his head popped around a corner, “would you mind elaborating further on your use of the phrase ‘the better choice?’”

“Huh?” Rose asks, distracted by his words in one ear and her ringing mobile in the other.

The Doctor fidgets behind the building wall; she can hear the soft _pad-pad-pad_ of his fingers drumming on the bricks. “You said Mickey would be ‘the better choice.’ I’m just curious why.”

Rose shrugs again. “Dunno,” she says. Mickey’s voicemail picks up and she ends the call, abandoning it for a text instead. “Just sort of makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Does it, though?”

She looks up from her mobile to find the Doctor watching her, his face carefully neutral. Rose’s eyebrows draw together in confusion.

“Yeah,” she says slowly. “You know. He’s been to a dozen of these things, he knows how it all goes.”

The Doctor scoffs. “I know how it all goes. I know more about weddings than he does. I know more about _everything_ than he does.”

“Sure, but you whinge more about everything, too,” Rose mocks.

“I’m just saying,” the Doctor continues as if he never heard her, “words like ‘better’ should not be thrown about willy-nilly. Far be it from me to police your verbiage, but I can’t help it if I value a certain amount of accuracy in the spoken word.”

Laughing, Rose returns her attention to her mobile, thumbing out the rest of her message to Mickey. “I am being accurate! Mickey’s the better choice. I should have asked him to begin with, but leave it to me to ask the bloke with a two-second attention span.”

“I do not—”

“And Mickey’s not gonna fidget during the ceremony,” Rose continues.

The Doctor sniffs, stops drumming his fingers on the wall, stuffs his hands in his coat-pockets. “I don’t fidget,” he mutters.

“Mickey’s probably not gonna insult anybody there.”

“I never insult; I merely observe.”

“Mickey’s not going to confuse people with weird references to things that haven’t happened yet,” Rose counts off on one hand.

“Oh, come off it. That’s not weird, that’s charming!”

“Not to mention, he could probably drum up something a little dressier.”

“Yes, but he’d have to take the time to dig it up and change and hoof it all the way over, yet I’m here, right here, and already technically dressed in a suit!” the Doctor protests.

“Yeah, but you don’t want to go,” Rose replies, typing out the last of her message.

“That is true. I most emphatically do not. I was recently told, however, that sometimes adults have to do things even if they don’t want to, and if 900 years of living doesn’t qualify me as an ‘adult’, I don’t know what does.”

Shaking her head, Rose chuckles to herself, her thumb hovering over the “send” button. But she hesitates; there’s a funny feeling at the back of her skull like her instincts are picking up on something before her brain does. She looks up at the Doctor to find him watching her with casual disinterest.

Is she imagining things, or does he look just a little _too_ casual, just a smidge too disinterested?

“He’s good to have around, don’t you think?” Rose asks slowly. “Mickey.”

“If you say so,” the Doctor says, shrugging.

Rose hides a grin, stuffing her mobile back in her purse. “That tip he gave us looks promising.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” the Doctor says, pushing away from the wall. He strolls toward her, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his steps slow and lazy. “Won’t really find out until we check out the school, will we?”

“Handy around the house, too,” Rose continues. “Handy repairman.”

The Doctor scoffs. “Please. He probably can’t tell a hyperdrive from a hydrospanner.”

“And he’s a bit pretty, don’t you think?”

“ _I’m_ a bit pretty,” the Doctor protests. “It’s not that impressive. Anyone can do it.”

“Mickey’s a good dancer,” Rose adds.

The Doctor stops in his tracks, eyebrow arching in surprise, and Rose wonders why until she remembers another conversation about dancing, in a darkened room with a man who would sooner saw off his own arm than admit he was jealous. She remembers how, despite his blustering, he didn’t protest when she held one of his hands in hers and planted the other on her hip. He didn’t so much as blink, almost like they’d done this a thousand times before, so much that his hands touching her didn’t even register as different or new. (Like his hands belonged on her, she’d thought at the time, and struggled not to blush.) And more than anything, she remembers the expression on his face, his mouth carefully composed, his eyes half-lidded and darkening. It may be a different face, but it’s the same look he wears now.

Rose shivers in a way that’s got nothing to do with the cold.

“I know what you’re doing,” the Doctor says quietly.

“Oh?” Rose replies; she’s lost track of the conversation, distracted by memories and fantasies and the Doctor’s proximity as he saunters over, closing the gap between them. He doesn’t stop until his feet stand inches from hers, scuffed old Chucks and shiny new pumps facing off against each other like a pair of warring armies.

“Really?” Rose asks, playing for time. The Doctor nods silently. His face is impossible to gauge.

(But surely he’s not angry with her. Right?)

Rose chews on her bottom lip. “Is it working?” she asks.

The Doctor’s mouth twitches in the ghost of a smile. Rose could swear his eyes are charting her now like they did over a year ago. Surveying the landscape, traveling over slopes and hills and plains covered by a dress that may or may not be just a little on the sheer side, now that she thinks about it. Soon enough his wandering eyes returns to hers and Rose forces herself to hold steady, not to break his gaze, even though something about it makes her toes curl in her pumps.

“Perhaps,” the Doctor says, and Rose allows herself a shy smile.

“And perhaps Mickey is an excellent dancer. But I,” the Doctor says, shrugging out of his coat so that he can drape it over Rose’s shoulders, “am a gentleman.”

The Doctor pulls the coat snug around her frame. It settles against her with a reassuring weight. She snuggles into it, relishing the feel of the warm silk lining on her bare arms, trying desperately to ignore the faint traces of the Doctor’s scent that greet her anytime she moves. (Not that she really minds. The smell is mild, clean, familiar. But it’s also distracting.)

“That so?” she asks.

He grins down at her, hands stalling at the bottom of the coat-lapels. “It is.”

The Doctor steps back, proffers his arm to Rose. Her tongue peeks out between her teeth, lips parting in a broad smile. She accepts his offer, threading her arm through his. The two of them stroll away, and if the Doctor minds that Rose snuggles just a little closer to him than is strictly necessary, well, he doesn’t mention it. He does, however, heave a resigned sigh as they walk.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” he mutters, shaking his head.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
